


folie à un

by distractionpie



Series: 2018 Rarepair Challenge [4]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: (minor) - Freeform, Haguenau, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-29 04:45:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14465295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distractionpie/pseuds/distractionpie
Summary: Webster has changed and Cobb is out of patience (or maybe just going out of his mind).





	folie à un

Roy didn’t have friends, he'd made that mistake in Africa and he wasn't going to be so stupid again, but he’d also been smart enough to see that he wasn’t going to make it through this war without allies. Webster had been one of them. Roy had realised long ago that war was a shit-show and Webster, who'd originally been one of the deluded romantics with a head full of stories of heroism, had come back from Normandy utterly stripped of his illusions in the face of the reality of war. They'd had each other’s backs after that, a sort of quite understanding that neither of them had any use for glorious death, that they were two guys who weren’t fighting for commendations or a love of combat or the chance to show valour, but just because it was the only damn way that this war was ever going to be over.

Then Webster had taken a shot to the leg.

And Roy isn’t sure what to make of the version of him that’s come back.

He stands out among the crowd, all clean uniform, clean hair, clean skin. Smiling like even his thoughts are clear and untainted. Even the nurses at the aid stations weren't as fresh faced as Webster looks now. Everyone has been worn down and sullied by the long hard winter, but not Webster.

Roy hadn’t begrudged his absence. Or rather he had, but he hadn’t blamed Webster to taking the opportunity chance had presented to him. It’s not like Roy has never considered taking a stupid injury and malingering in hospital for months, if he thought he could set himself up for that without too much risk

But now Webster’s come back like they worked on more than just his leg in the hospital. Like they’ve somehow manged to empty his head and make him forget about all the horrors, which Roy would envy him if they hadn’t apparently also stripped away the hard-learned pragmatism and preservation instincts in the process.

But then, would Webster have been gone for so long if he hadn’t had some of that sense left?

He tries at the showers first, but Webster ducks away from him then, chasing the Lieutenant and the next time Roy can get him alone is after dark, cornering him in an alleyway as they’re beginning preparations for crossing the river.

“What are you—? Cobb,” Webster starts, but Roy cuts him off. They haven’t got long.

“Four months, just for a leg wound you could walk on when it happened,” he congratulates.

Webster’s expression darkens. “You think—”

“Guess even you couldn’t malinger forever,” Roy adds in commiseration, hoping that now, away from the judging eyes of the rest of the company Webster will give that tiny smirk he used to when they were up to their tricks and say it had been a good vacation while it lasted.

Roy’s slim hopes are dashed when Webster balks.

"I didn’t," Webster hisses. “I know that everyone is thinking it but I stayed because that was what the doctors decided. It wasn’t my fault.”

Roy would respect him more if he owned it, admitted that he’d played up the injury and charmed or bribed the Doctors into allowing it. Wanting to get out of this war Roy could understand, far more than the idiocy Webster has engaged with ever since catching up with the company on the road into Haguenau.

In Holland Webster had the right idea, volunteer for nothing, do your duty and no more, officers weren't to be trusted, and always look out for number one. Sure he hadn’t stuck to it perfectly but then the stories of heroism they were all raised on were hard to shake, especially when everyone around you was still trying to believe – even Roy wasn’t wholly immune to that. Still, Webster had been incessantly tardy and shirked whenever the opportunity arose, catching Roy’s eye to invite him along when there was a chance to get away so they could they'd sit behind barns and in haylofts drinking pilfered wine and complaining together about the petty tyrannies of certain spoiled officers who treated their soldiers more like servants.

Now Web has stooped to kissing up to a green lieutenant, the kind of wide-eyed child who'd likely wind up leading a platoon to their deaths chasing a taste of the action; and making a fool of himself trying to act like he was buddies with the guys in second platoon even though the only reason they acknowledged his return at all was because he was one of them now, because second had gaps to fill while first platoon —their platoon— had spent the last four months getting used to getting by just fine without Webster.

It’s pathetic, Webster is pathetic and Roy doesn’t know what’s been annoying, Liebgott yanking him about like a puppy on a chain, or Webster letting him do it like maybe if Web plays the keen little soldier there’ll be any reward more than a pointless death in it for him.

He pushes Web then, crowding him against the wall, like maybe if he’s forceful enough he can make Webster confess to what he did and remember his reasons for doing, that they’re alike, the pair of them and their lives aren’t meant to be played with like toy soldiers in this stupid war.

Roy has mostly learned to block off his sense of smell, he already knows that his whole world stinks of sweat and blood and gunpowder, but now he’s struck by something unexpected and long forgotten. He breaths in, catches the sharp smell of detergent from his pristine uniform and underneath that a hint of coal tar soap and a stray memory of laughing at Webster in Aldbourne for buying his own from the village store because he claimed the army issue stuff made his skin flake.

For a moment, the scent is enough is enough to block everything else out. He’s dulled himself to the damp air and cold winds, the racket of gunfire and booming artillery, but this he’d never expected and has no defences for.

Once or twice, during those stolen hours in Holland, he’d thought about kissing Webster. Not because he was some sort of queer but because he’d suspected that Webster might be (he was too neat, too carefully spoken, too uncomfortable with the casual roughhousing that went on between the other men) and by then it had been months since he’d had any sort of touch but that roughhousing. Roy had craved even the smallest escape into softness and taken in parts —lips stained red with wine, soft hands brushing up against Roy’s own when he’d passed over the bottle, clear blue eyes and the long dark lashes that women spent fortunes on cosmetics to achieve— Webster had been a temptation.

And then he’d been gone.

It’s been even longer now since Roy has felt a pleasant touch, even the shoving and the wrestling had died off in Bastogne when nobody had the energy or the innocence for youthful games, and Webster is still a temptation.

And if they cross the river tonight either one of them could be gone by morning.

He closes the rest of the space between them, mouth colliding with Webster’s. He wouldn’t kiss a woman like this, this is nothing like Holland when Roy had told himself he’d close his eyes and imagine a girl but he can’t worry about that now, twisting at Webster’s shirt and pressing harder until their bodies are aligned.

But Webster is stiff and his lips are far less yielding than they look. Roy might not have kissed a man before but he knows it’s supposed to end in reciprocity and not Webster grabbing him by the shoulders and shoving him away.

He stumbles, the resistance unanticipated, and watches as Webster purses his lips (redder now from Roy’s kiss than the wine had ever managed in Holland) as he smooths down his shirt with those soft hands.

There are a thousand phrases on the tip of his tongue: ways to put the blame for what just happened on Webster, ways to ensure he keeps his silence, ways to convince him nobody would ever believe him if he did tell. And he still has Webster trapped, he could threaten him into never acknowledging this or shut him up for real.

Instead Roy laughs.

It’s a bitter thing even to his own ears, but then, what’s wrong with that? Why shouldn’t his mirth be as vicious and cold as the rest of this war that’s drive him half over the edge?

Webster stares at him with wary, judgement-filled eyes, waiting to see what Roy’s insanity will delivery next, but Roy just turns away from him. The faster he can get away from Webster the faster this moment of madness can be forgotten.

Maybe Webster will talk, but it won’t make a difference.

They’re going over the river tonight and who knows what will happen out there, but if he makes it back then Ron is finding a way out of this war by whatever means necessary.

Enough is enough.

**Author's Note:**

> The hardest thing about this fic was trying to get myself to think of/type Cobb as Roy.


End file.
